


WHAT USE OUR WORK

by Wolfiekins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Male Slash, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfiekins/pseuds/Wolfiekins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After entering into an Internship at St. Mungo's, Ron's a bit overwhelmed and worried about keeping up his end of things.  As always, Harry sorts him out.</p><p>WARNINGS:  Established Relationship, AU, Adult Language & Situations, Strong Sexual Content, Slash, Marking</p>
            </blockquote>





	WHAT USE OUR WORK

**Author's Note:**

> Set six years after the end of the War. Not DH compliant. The title is taken from a season one episode of _Ripper Street_. This particular story started out as a rather thin bunny sometime back in 2006 or 2007. Written for the 2014 [ Harry/Ron Reunion ](http://harryronreunion.livejournal.com/) on Live Journal. This is the first piece I've completed since early 2010. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter and all associated characters and settings remain the intellectual property of JK Rowling and her associates. No offence intended nor monies made through this presentation.

 

 

 

**_~~~~ Saturday, 15 May, 2004 ~~~~_ **

 

 

“ _Oh, and Nesbitt bobbles the Quaffle! And there's Spielman! He snags it, and the Brigadiers once again thwart another Cannons' scoring drive! The offensive woes continue for Wood this season!_ ”

“C'mon, boys!” Ron yells, pounding a fist on his thigh. He shoots his ancient wireless set an withering glance as the play by play continues.

“ _Spielman passes to Dudsworth, he feints, and the Cannons' chasers can't stop him! Dudsworth reverse passes back to Spielman... it's Spielman corkscrewing towards the hoops, and Chudley's keeper sets..._ ”

“Block that bastard!” Ron swallows a hefty amount of Guinness, visualising the player's movements as he paces around his old bedroom.

“ _Spielman flies left, then cuts up and right! Chudley's Dingleman moves to block, but... oh, no! He catches the hoop with the end of his broomstick and he's off and tumbling to the grass! Spielman scores easily!_ ” 

“Bloody hell!” Ron drains the beer, flinging the empty bottle to the waste bin by his bed. 

“ _Henwald ties it up! And yes, Dingleman's fine and on his feet. Oh, we've an official time-out on the pitch! It's Henwald 50, Chudley 50, and you're listening to play-by-play coverage of the British Quidditch League's official Match of the Week on WSN2. We'll be back in sixty seconds after these messages from your local broadcaster._ ”

Ron waves a hand at the wireless to lower the volume of the annoying adverts. Why must they always be so much louder than the programme?

He sits on the sill of his open window, the steady breeze a welcome guest in the stuffy room. His faded Chudley curtains ripple lazily, in stark contrast to the gregarious, milling throng tramping around the backyard of the Burrow. 

Ginny'd insisted on holding her ruddy soirée out back in the garden, despite the fact that the gnomes were more numerous than ever, and the Estonian Vinca was clearly in the foulest of moods. Luckily, his mum had sufficiently stunned the surly vines, and so far, no party goers had been entangled or stung. 

Ron enjoys parties as much as the next fellow, but he'd tired of his sister's Handfasting reception in record time, seeking sanctuary in his old bedroom. The last week at St. Mungo's had been especially gruelling, so he shouldn't be surprised to find himself so wrung out.

He's only a quarter of the way through the accelerated, sixteen-week Internship for the position of Junior Healer, Fourth Class. The bookwork is nearly overwhelming in of itself, and the practicals push him to his limits, yet he welcomes the challenge and finds the program rewarding... so far. 

The Deputy administrator of the hospital helms Ron's group, and the bloke, a Barkley Gridling, is snarkier than Snape and rides them mercilessly. 

Already, half of the prospective healers have dropped out, leaving Ron and four others. Though strict, Gridling's relatively fair, which Ron figures is probably for the best in the long run. 

Spare the wand and spoil the intern, apparently.

If it hadn't been for Harry prodding and encouraging him, Ron would never have applied for the special Internship. The War had ravaged the wizarding population, leaving legions of veterans, as well as civilians, in dire need of counselling and treatment. Cases of post-traumatic stresses of varying degrees continue to appear almost unabated, and the need for skilled healers far outstripped the supply.

As a boy, he'd always fantasised about becoming an Auror, though years of _unofficially_ battling dark wizards before and after the Battle of Hogwarts had sullied Ron's dream somewhat. It had been those awful experiences, in addition to what he'd endured while on patrol for The Order, that had brought his innate talents for healing to the fore. 

Even old Gridling's admitted that he's a natural, and in any case, Ron truly enjoys helping patients by easing their pain. 

Plus, his bedside manner isn't too terrible, either.

A burst of cheers from the wireless draws him back to the match. 

“ _...there's Spielman executing a perfect Dionysus Dive! Dingleman swoops over... and it's past him! Henwald scores! The Brigadiers take the lead over the Cannons, 60 to 50!_ ”

"Whatever," Ron grumps to himself. He blinks up at the nearly cloudless expanse of cerulean sky; at least the weather had cooperated.

Down on the ground, however, Ginny's big day had not been without incident. 

Poor Neville had fumbled his vows in a most profound fashion. His mum had been uncharacteristically nervous, bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. Seamus imbibed too much firewhiskey, managing to fall into the pond not once, but twice. The impressive, four-tiered cake proved to be inedible, as the house elves had inexplicably taken their instructions literally, making the sodding thing out of marble.

At least the vanilla creme frosting had been tasty. 

Finally, the gnomes couldn't seem to stay away from Ginny; for some reason, they'd always found her irresistible. 

For a Weasley event, a relative success. 

Ron surveys the scene from his lofty perch, noting with some satisfaction that the horde of guests has thinned considerably.

He watches as George, his arm slung around Angelina's waist, chats with Charlie and his bondmate, Nigel. Ron likes him. Nigel's bright and has no problems expressing his opinions, plus, he handles himself well when faced with a houseful of Weasleys. 

No mean feat, that.

Ginny and Hermione stroll under the huge oak tree, engaged in deep conversation, most likely discussing Hermione's upcoming Bonding with Viktor. His Mum alternately directs the hired house elves while prising an especially amorous gnome from Fleur's leg. Bill, a bottle of firewhiskey in hand, leads Percy and Audrey off toward the pond for another undoubtedly in-depth conversation concerning Percy's recent reconciliation with the family. 

“ _...and the Cannons' beaters drive two Bludgers at Spielman... he's hit... he's down! Tremling sweeps in and snags the Quaffle! He dives for Henwald's hoops... oh, my! There's a daring Finborough Flick! It's through! Chudley scores again, now ahead of the Brigadiers by thirty points! I haven't seen Coach Wood smile so much in a single match!_ ”

Ron leans out the window and looks all around, but his Dad and Neville are nowhere in sight. Most likely, they've skulked off to his dad's shed. In addition to herbology, Neville shares his new father-in-law's fascination with all things Muggle.

More raucous cheers from the wireless:

" _Oh, and Bodkin's snagged the snitch! Yes, he's got it!_ "

"Bollocks," Ron grumbles, standing up and scratching at his forearms. The scars from the brains always flare up during the warmer weather, no matter how he slathers on the sunblocks or analgesic creams. 

He watches as his Mum scolds an extraordinarily frazzled house elf. She sends it on its way and looks up, her gaze locking on his. She waves for him to come down, but Ron shakes his head. His mum frowns and mimics his response as she makes to tidy up the nearly decimated table of gnoshables. 

Harry ambles by her then, fishing about in a tubful of melted ice for a long moment, finally extracting two brown bottles. Grasping them by their necks, he looks up at the window and smiles. He hefts the bottles and heads for the house.

“ _Well, that's the match!_ ” the announcer proclaims “ _Another heartbreaking loss for Oliver Wood and his Cannons! Chudley drops to last place in the division, while Henwald remains solidly in second position._ ”

Ron snorts, turning away from the window. 

“ _So it's the Henwald Heath Brigadiers over the Chudley Cannons, 160 to 90. Live from Henwald Municipal Pitch, this is Farley Fielding for WSN2. Today's match has been brought to you by Madame Ciara's Morning After Draught. Let Madam banish your revelry! And also by Marmsley's Wailing Wench Washing Powder, now with improved whiteners for—_ ”

“Bloody fuckin' hell!" Ron growls, waving a hand and silencing the wireless.

“What was that?" Harry calls out from the hallway.

“Cock-knockin' Cannons!"

“Lose again, did they?" Harry strides into Ron's bedroom and hands over a bottle of Winchester's Burly Brown Ale. "And since when have you objected to cock-knocking of any sort?"

Ron snorted. “Do you kiss my mum with that mouth?”

“Kettle, meet pot,” Harry says with sufficient cheek.

Ron swallows some ale. “Shouldn't be surprised, I reckon. Nothing good ever comes from a Cannons match.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't be. Just the way of it.”

Harry smiles crookedly, looking around the room while sipping on his ale. “Hasn't changed much.” He studies the now-vintage Cannons poster dominating the wall over Ron's bureau, which depicts an aerial view of Chudley Pitch on a match day. “Looks so forlorn with the stands empty like that.”

“Yeah,” Ron agrees. “Although one can't really expect the crowd to hang around without any fliers to watch.” 

According to his mum, the half-dozen Cannons on broomsticks that'd zoomed around the poster for years had vacated shortly after Ron had moved to London with Harry, most likely to another poster with better viewership.

“We should take it back to the flat,” Harry says, completing his inspection. “The players might return if its displayed in a livelier location.”

“Nah, leave it. Wherever everyone went, they're most likely happier there.”

Harry shrugs. “Just a thought.”

“Miss much down there?” Ron asks, jerking his head out the window.

“Not really, although I think Seamus will be staying the night.”

“He enjoys that vintage Gwibley's, doesn't he?”

“It's fine firewhiskey, to be sure, and I like a belt or two myself from time to time, but—”

“Good old Shay. _Never_ too much of a good thing,” Ron says around a smirk.

“Afraid so. Oh, did Hermione mention that they've had to shift the date for their Handfasting?”

Ron shakes his head. “No. What's happened?” 

“Seems that the Sirens' owners have agreed to a last minute series of exhibition matches in Australia for June, and Viktor will be in Wallamaloo over the weekend they'd already chosen. So now it's set for the second weekend in July. I think she said that's the tenth and eleventh, but I'm not sure.”

“Whatever they decide.” Ron snorts and shakes hid head.

“What?”

“Oh, I was just thinking of Viktor adjusting to those wonky broomsticks they use down there. Australian Rules Quidditch. Makes the way we play look like a child's tea party.”

“Ah,” Harry replies, nodding. “So is that weekend okay for you, with your studies and all?”

“As good as any. I'll just pack up whatever texts and parchments I need and drag them along to Sofia.” He points his bottle of ale at Harry. “Just remind me as we get nearer the time, as I'll probably forget.”

“Sure. A busy summer for Bondings, isn't it?”

Ron takes another long pull of ale, only nodding in response.

“So we _really_ need to make up our minds about Draco and Astoria's Handfasting. We've had the invite for over a week, and it's R.S.V.P.”

“Aren't they all?”

“Well?”

Ron shrugs. “Neither of us were ever overly fond of the Ferret, so I see no reason to waste yet another summer weekend, let alone at bloody Malfoy Manor.”

“Draco's changed, Ron. His Widows and Orphans Fund is helping hundreds, if not thousands of people. Sure, he's still a pompous git—”

“You can say _that_ again!”

“—but he's worked really hard to make amends and to put his past behind him,” Harry finishes, sparing Ron a warning glance. 

“Good for him. So I'm guessing that you feel we need to make an appearance.”

“Yes, I do. How can we expect others to dispense with old prejudices if we're not prepared to do so ourselves?”

Ron notes Harry's deathly earnest expression, which his partner only reserves for issues of the most dire import, such as striving to instil harmony throughout the wizarding world, properly organising his Muggle record collection, or working through the _Daily Prophet_ Sunday crossword.

“Fine, whatever you say,” he relents. “I'll do my best, but I'm not going to pretend that we're suddenly best mates or something.”

“Not asking that. Just be civil and keep an open mind.”

“I will if he will,” Ron grumbles, sipping his ale. “When is it again?”

“It's the last weekend in July, I think.”

“Brilliant.”

“It won't be so bad,” Harry assures. “Besides, you look smashing in your dress robes, and truth be told, I sort of like showing you off.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Alright, that's enough! You've already convinced me!” He sighs heavily, scratching at his forearm.

“Hermione's aloe tincture not doing the trick?”

“Yeah, it works well enough, though I wish she hadn't added the lavender scent.”

Harry stifles a chuckle.

“Anyway, I had the tin on the hearth, but I forgot it this morning.”

“I could Floo back to the flat and get it for you—”

Ron waves a hand. “Nah.” He hefts his bottle of Winchester's. “One or two more of these, and I'll be fine.”

Harry makes a gesture of surrender as the ghoul wails mournfully and bumps around in the attic.

“He doesn't sound well,” Harry says, eyeing the ceiling.

“ _It_ is fine. Probably just annoyed at all the commotion.”

“Most likely.” Harry watches him a long moment, his almost-mono-brow knitting together, which really doesn't take much effort. “Ron, are _you_ right?”

Ron waves a hand as if to dispel an odour. “Oh, yeah, of course.”

“Are you sure? You've been unusually irritable and more than a little distracted.”

“Have I? Well, definitely a bit stressed, I suppose. Sorry, that. Old Gridling's as demanding as McGonagall ever was, though not nearly as understanding.”

“You've had a long week, that's for sure.” 

“Too bloody right,” Ron agrees, taking another swig of ale. “It's been great seeing everyone today, but I found myself wearing down so I took my leave for a little peace and quiet.”

“And?” Harry prods cryptically.

“What?” 

“I find it _very_ interesting that you tired of the reception at precisely 1p.m.”

Ron gestures to the silent wireless. “There just happened to be a match on,” he says meekly.

Harry folds his arms across his chest. “Haven't we discussed this?”

“Harry—”

“How much you lose this week, then?"

Ron pulls a face. “Not much.”

“C'mon. How much is _not much_?”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Two, I reckon,” he replies, unable to suppress a grin. 

“Sickles?”

“Galleons.”

“Could be worse.”

“Erm, that'd be two galleons to each person.”

“Good Godric, mate!” Harry says around a bemused smile.

“It's not _that_ much,” Ron protests, returning to his window. He watches as Ginny, Hermione and his mum attempt to coax Seamus down from the oak tree.

“How many people do you owe?" 

Ron shrugs. “Seamus and George.”

“Four galleons isn't _too_ bad,” Harry muses.

“Then there's Spinnett and Hurley at Mungo's”

“Ron!”

“And maybe Percy and Bill.”

“Maybe?” Harry barks out a laugh. “I know you love the Cannons, and far be it for me to be a wet cloak, but even I can tell they're worse than ever this year.”

“Now I wouldn't say that! The margins were very much in Chudley's favour for this match,” Ron retorts, turning around. Harry might have a point; well, not _might_ have, but it was still early days yet, with plenty of matches remaining for things to turn around. “They've a new pair of Beaters this season, and you know how long it takes for fresh players to settle in.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something but Ron ploughs on.

“And yeah, their offence is shaky—”

“That's one way to describe it,” Harry snorts, taking a long pull on his ale.

“But their defence is second to none,” Ron finishes, sounding far more petulant than he'd intended.

“Might want to consider supporting another team, if only for monetary concerns.” 

Harry's tone is light, Ron still winces a bit.

“If only they'd win every once in awhile, it'd all be sorted!”

Though money isn't really a problem for them, what with Harry's vault at Gringott's, Ron works very hard to contribute his fair share toward their household expenses. Harry's Auror position paid well, of course, but Ron's income had never come close to equalling it. 

George had compensated him handsomely when he'd worked at Wheeze's, though he hadn't been able to save much. His late Uncle Billius had left him a thousand galleons in a trust which he'd inherited when he'd turned twenty-one, and he'd stubbornly refused to spend a knut of it until recently, most of the sum paying for the cost of his Internship, with the rest barely covering his books and associated lab fees.

Twelve galleons gone isn't the end of the world, but Ron can't deny that squandering said amount on Quidditch wagering probably isn't the best use of his limited resources.

“But once a Cannon, always a Cannon,” he says finally. “Chudley's been my team from the get go. What sort of fan would I be if I changed affiliations at the drop of a Quaffle? I've orange in the blood, you know.”

Harry nods. “Loyal no matter what.” Harry presses against Ron, his free hand snaking around Ron's waist to squeeze his backside. “I love that about you, you know.”

"What, my loyalty to the Cannons or my arse?" Ron shoots back, his hand instinctively curling round Harry's waist.

“What do you think?”

Harry waggles his bushy eyebrows, stepping back and taking a hefty swallow of ale. He gently lifts the bottle from Ron's hand, sending it and his over to land on Ron's bed table. He embraces Ron again, smiling wickedly as he grinds his hips into Ron's thigh.

“You know I was only taking the piss about the galleons.”

“I know. I _do_ need to be more responsible, though.”

“You're the most responsible man I know,” Harry counters. “I need you to do me a favour, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay, I'll try not to wager so much on matches—”

Harry waves a hand. “That's something you definitely need to work on, but I had something else in mind.”

“Oh?” Ron says with no small amount of relief. “Like what?”

“I want you to really focus on your studies. Don't give our budget or money another thought until you're certified as a Healer, okay?”

“If that actually happens.”

“Enough of that! You'll finish at the top of your class, I'm sure of it. You've aced every exam so far, and your papers have received the highest marks. I've confidence in you, Ronnie. I _know_ you can do it.”

Ron gazes at Harry, knowing he's grinning like a total git but powerless to stop it. 

“I won't let you down, then.”

“You never have,” Harry replies smoothly. “You've always tried to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, regardless of your own burdens. This time, though, I want you to let _me_ carry things, okay?” 

“Harry—”

“Don't argue with me, Weasley,” Harry growls. “No fussing about the flat, no worrying over groceries or bills or cleaning. For the next few months, let me handle everything.”

“But you're working full-time yourself,” Ron points out. 

“I've got it all sorted,” Harry insists. “You know how the Ministry is deep in the throes of downsizing? Budget cuts, eliminating programs, rolling lay-offs?”

“Yeah. The War's been over for years, and you've said yourself that dark wizard activity is virtually nil.”

“Right. And my division isn't immune. At least a dozen Auror positions will be eliminated. A few of the older fellows don't mind retiring, and the severance package is fair, but most blokes are either too young to be laid off, can't afford it, or both. So I've volunteered.”

“What?”

“Let me finish!”

“Right, fine,” Ron replies sheepishly. It didn't do to resist when Harry was on a roll. 

“I've spoken to Kingsley, and he's agreed to allow me an early retirement.”

“But it's the worst time for that, innit? I'm not bringing anything in right now, and we've agreed _not_ to live off of your inheritance,” Ron says around a sigh.

“Well, that's more you than me,” Harry reminds him, “but Kingsley's agreed to keep me on until you've gotten your certification. He's being very accommodating about the whole thing, and he knows that it's only a matter of time before my position is targeted for elimination anyway. It really was little more than a trophy job in the first place—”

“That may be so, but you've worked your arse off, not to mention risked your life! It was supposed to be a lifetime appointment,” Ron fumes, stalking around his small room.

“Everything changes, and instead of just sitting around, waiting to be pushed out, I'd rather leave when it suits me to do so.” He puts out an arm and halts Ron's pacing. “When it's best for _us_.”

Ron nods, unable to suppress a wan smile. “Makes sense, as always.” 

“So, you'll settle in for a month or two, collect a few pay checks, and then I'll pack up my office and enjoy some well-deserved time off.”

“And then what? I can't believe you don't have another iron in the fire.”

Harry arches an eyebrow. “Do you recall the owl that came for me late last year? From Liam Greenwich?”

“You don't mean?”

Harry nods. “Ballycastle _still_ needs an Assistant Coach next year, and Liam firecalled me on Friday to let me know the position was open. So, I've tentatively accepted his offer. It's something I've always wanted to do, and I've definitely had my fill of bureaucracy, not to mention dark wizards and their ilk.”

“That's wonderful!” Ron exclaims, hugging Harry and lifting him off the floor. He twirls them around once and sets Harry down to the carpet. “You secretive little tit! When were you going to tell me?”

“I wanted the news to be a surprise. Since you've been so blue lately, now seemed the perfect time to tell you.”

“The Bats! Of course there'll be free tickets and locker room access,” Ron says dreamily, staring off into space. “And that Beater of theirs, Sizemore, is extremely fit. Remember his spread in _Quidditch Stars: Un-robed!_ last month? Merlin!”

Harry pulls a face. “He's bonded, Ron. To a witch.”

“So? I can still look, can't I?”

“We just might have to make those locker room visitations provisional,” Harry says ominously.

“No worries, mate. You know there's only one that I perv over _and_ touch.” 

“I suppose that's something,” Harry quips, slipping his arms around Ron, one hand sliding down the back of Ron's twill trousers. He tilts his head and kisses Ron deeply, his tongue pushing past Ron's lips in a familiar dance.

Ron palms the fly of Harry's corduroys, moaning at the firmness there. He breaks the kiss and cards his fingers through Harry's hair.

“Cause for a little celebration, eh?” He snaps his fingers, drawing Harry in close.

A full bottle of Gwibley's sails through the open window, two shot glasses trailing after. They hover obediently next to them, and Ron twirls his index finger, popping the cork. Another series of flicks and twirls, and the bottle tips, filling each glass with the potent firewhiskey.

Ron snags a glass as the bottle settles onto the bed table.

“A toast?”

Harry snatches his glass and hefts it up and Ron does likewise.

“To the best mate, partner and lover a bloke could ever wish for.” 

“Right back at you.” Harry clinks his glass to Ron's.

They both down the liquor, Harry spluttering a bit as Ron sucks in a deep breath.

“Hits the spot.”

“Sure does,” Harry agrees. He sends their glasses to the bed table and sidles up to Ron. “So it's all settled then. You knuckle down and study hard, I handle everything else, and once you're a Healer, I'll help coach all those fit, young blokes over in Ballycastle.”

Ron shakes his head and opens his mouth to reply, but Harry stills his lips with a finger.

“Discussion is closed on this matter! Have I made myself clear then?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Potter, sir,” Ron replies robotically, hugging Harry tightly and leaning down to leave a kiss to Harry's faded lightning bolt scar. “I shall endeavour to accede to your wishes.”

Harry leans his head to Ron's chest. 

“See to it, lest I be forced to contemplate possible punishments for non-compliance.”

“Punishment? What sort?” Ron asks brightly.

Harry looks up and laughs. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I've some ideas, but I think we need to iron out this punishment stuff a bit,” he rumbles, grinding his hips into Harry's waist. 

“So we shall,” Harry agrees. 

“I like the way you think, mate.”

Harry rocks his hips into Ron's groin. “Is that all you like, then? Just my brilliant mind?”

Ron growls and leans down to nuzzle the side of Harry's neck. “That, and your brilliant neck.” He nibbles and licks his way up to Harry's cheek. “And your chin, and cheek.” He cups Harry's backside with both hands, squeezing hard. “And one cannot forget your brilliant arse.”

Harry moans, slipping a hand inside the back of Ron's trousers. “Talk about brilliance.” His fingers work their way past the waistband of Ron's boxers and he runs them along the crack of Ron's arse. “Total fucking brilliance,” he breathes, rutting into Ron with increasing intensity.

Ron kisses his way along Harry's jawline. “Gods, Harry. Right here? Now?”

“Why not? Wouldn't be the first time, right?” The door slams shut and the latch clunks into place. “There. That's better.”

“Whatever you want,” Ron breathes. He un-tucks Harry's shirt, his thick fingers fumbling with the buttons. 

“Fuck, gotta get these clothes off.” Harry un-tucks Ron's shirt and rips it open, sending buttons flying in all directions.

Ron steps out of his shoes and shrugs off of the ruins of his shirt.

Harry backs up toward Ron's old bed, kicking off his shoes and shoving down his corduroys at the same time. His blue boxers barely hang onto his narrow hips as he flops to the mattress to yank off the trousers. 

Ron stops undressing, his trousers partway down his legs. 

He watches Harry pull off his socks and fling them away. Though they've been together for almost five years now, seeing Harry starkers or nearly so never fails to take Ron's breath away. He knows he's incredibly biased, but to his mind, Harry's only grown more handsome as the years pass. Filled out a bit, no longer achingly slim, but nicely muscled, and Merlin, he'd haired up, dark whorls covering his chest with a lovely, thick trail down the centre of his belly. 

Harry notices Ron noticing.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just looking.”

Harry smiles and takes a good swig of firewhiskey. He points to Ron with the bottle. “Gonna keep me waiting, Weasley?”

“No,” Ron says, stepping out of his trousers, one foot hanging up in the cuff and nearly sending him to the floor. He hops around a few times, the heat of his blush warming his cheeks. He finally extricates himself from the trousers and kicks them away. 

Harry leans back on the bed on one elbow, watching as Ron pulls off his socks. He takes another pull on the bottle before setting it down on the bed table. 

“Gods, but you're beautiful,” Harry says, thrusting a hand down the front of his boxers. He murmurs an incantation, and Ron senses the slight oscillation of the air as the _Muffliato_ descends around them. He makes to shove down his Chudley boxers, but Harry shakes his head.

“No, no, wait. Come here.” Harry nods eagerly as he strokes himself inside his boxers. “Don't take 'em off yet.”

Ron does as he's told, his right hand straying down to palm his cotton-clad erection.

Harry stands up, shoving his boxers down and releasing his hard cock. He steps out of them and over to Ron, laying both hands on Ron's hips. 

“So fucking gorgeous.” Harry's hands glide up Ron's torso, his fingers then trailing their way across Ron's lightly furred chest. 

Ron sucks in a breath, his heart pounding out a staccato rhythm. 

He's more than familiar with this ritual of Harry's. He doesn't at all mind it, as Harry clearly enjoys taking control from time to time. His hands find their way to Harry's hips and he holds them there.

Harry steps closer, the tip of his cock nosing its way under the crotch of Ron's boxers, pressing firmly against his bollocks. Harry leans in, nuzzling the centre of Ron's chest a moment before licking and nibbling his way across Ron's left pectoral. He pauses, sucking on a particular patch of skin, gently taking a tiny fold between his teeth.

Ron wraps his arms around Harry, one hand stroking the curves of Harry's arse while the other cradles the back of Harry's head. 

Harry bears down a bit more, his nibbles becoming tiny bites. He sucks harder, as if pulling poison from a wound. He grinds his erection into Ron's upper thigh, both hands scribing wide circles across Ron's broad back. With a grunt, he bites down forcefully, barely moving his head from side to side, sucking harder all the while.

Ron throws his head back, crying out as he struggles allow Harry to finish. He closes his eyes and hugs Harry tightly, the pain of Harry's ministrations almost too much to bear. He's nearly at his limit... and then Harry releases him. 

“Oh, shit,” Ron gasps, opening his eyes.

“There's a good one,” Harry manages breathlessly, a crooked grin firmly in place. He kisses the oval bruise on Ron's chest that's quickly blossoming from light pink to red.

Ron jumps in spite of himself, barely able to leave a kiss to the top of Harry's head before Harry licks and laves his way down the centre of Ron's torso and belly.

Harry then drops to his knees, nosing the length of Ron's boxer-clad erection. He strips the boxers down to puddle at Ron's ankles, eagerly licking and laving away at the base of Ron's cock, one hand cupping Ron's arse while the other fondles his furred sacs.

Ron moans, concentrating on _not_ blowing his load so soon. He feels the pressure building in his bollocks, the first bit of heat slowly building and rising up from his groin. 

Harry, sensing Ron's urgency, ceases his suckling to pull down on Ron's hard cock and swallow it to the root.

“Gods!” Ron cries out, the sensation of Harry's hot mouth on him nearly sending him over the edge.

Harry establishes a steady rhythm quickly, bobbing his head back and forth along Ron's length, barely dragging his teeth along the sensitive underside of Ron's cock. He pauses briefly at the end of each downstroke to suckle and lick at the hyper-sensitive head before repeating the process again.

Ron sucks in deep breaths, rocking his hips back in forth in time to Harry's movements. His balls are on fire as he tenses his legs in an effort to keep his impending orgasm in check.

A few more pulls and Harry releases him, hopping to his feet. He stands on tip-toe and Ron instinctively hunkers down slightly so that their erections align perfectly. Harry ruts against him a few times, kissing Ron needfully before laving his way along Ron's stubbled jawline.

“Love you,” Harry says before backing away and flopping onto the mattress. His wand flies into his hand and he Engorges the old bed to twice its normal size. He drops the wand, tearing off his glasses to drop them on the bed table. “Come on,” he beckons, throttling his thick cock.

beckoning Ron with that hand while throttling his thick cock with the other. 

Ron steps out of his boxers and climbs onto Harry. They squirm their way to the centre of the mattress, Harry's hands massaging the firm globes of Ron's ample arse. Ron lifts his upper body a bit while grinding his hardness into Harry's own. 

Harry casts a wandless _Lubricus_ , the warm slickness a welcome yet still surprising addition. He leans up to capture Ron's lips, and Ron swallows Harry's hot moans.

With a grunt, Harry turns himself on his side; Ron does the same, keeping as much of them in contact with the other as they reverse positions, Harry now atop Ron as their kiss continues.

Ron shifts about, drawing his knees up and spreading his legs apart slightly as Harry breaks the kiss. He wriggles his way down Ron's body, their sweat-slicked, furry torsos sliding together in a heavenly friction. 

Harry hoists himself up, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. He positions the tip of his hard cock underneath Ron's bollocks, pressing the wide head against Ron's puckered ring of muscle. 

Ron hefts his hips up, barely lifting his feet off the bedspread, and though he steels himself for what comes next, it's never preparation enough.

With no preamble, Harry sheaths himself in Ron with a single stroke.

Ron moans, fighting to relax himself and facilitate Harry's welcome intrusion. 

Harry pauses only a moment before pulling back part way, then, again, he quickly establishes a steady rhythm.

Ron's breathing evens out the slightest bit, as the initial pain swiftly morphs to the familiar, pleasurable contentment. He adores when Harry takes him, which is rarely, and there's nothing better than having his love inside him, being physically connected. He throws his hands to Harry's hips, all his cares and worries draining away.

Harry drops down, his eyes closed now, his face a mask of concentration. His fringe sticks to his forehead as sweat beads on his brow. 

Ron sucks in deep breaths, and an instant later, the roiling heat surges forth, consuming him, destroying and re-creating him in a whitehot wave of wondrous ecstasy. He sputters gibberish as his orgasm erupts from him, his ejaculate coating his belly and chest. The blissed haze clears a little, and his old room coalesces around them again.

Harry's momentum falters once, then again. He jerks to a halt, and Ron thrusts his hips up, doing his best to clamp onto Harry's cock as tightly as possible. 

Another cry, and Harry comes, filling Ron with his release. He slumps, burying his head in the crook of Ron's neck. 

Ron lets his legs drop to the mattress and hugs Harry tightly, and they lie there together for a few, seemingly long moments, the gorgeous Saturday continuing right along outside the window.

Harry stirs first, as always, shifting about and pulling out of Ron, who gasps at the sudden emptiness. 

Harry wriggles around slightly, finally finding a comfortable position atop Ron. “Well, that's definitely done me in,” he comments drowsily. 

“I can understand why,” Ron observes. “Quite the spirited performance, not that I'm complaining.”

“There's something about shagging in your old room that turns me on,” Harry mutters into Ron's chest.

The ghoul thumps and whinges in a most pointed manner.

“Apparently, you're not the only one who feels that way,” Ron says around a chuckle.

Harry's eyes pop open. “Leave it to you to have a voyeuristic ghoul.” Harry glares at the ceiling a moment, but the ghoul remains silent. “Is it okay if we just lay here awhile?”

“No worries. I like it sticky.”

“You're a strange bird, Ron.” Harry lifts his head to meet Ron's gaze and smiles.

“And you like it,” Ron says around a yawn, feeling rather boneless himself.

“Well, yeah.” Harry lets his head drop back to Ron's chest. “A bit warm in here, though.” He waves a hand, casting a very low-grade _Deprimo_.

“Feels good,” Ron mumbles, his eyelids suddenly far too heavy. “How about a quick nap, then we really should get back down and socialise.” He casts a _Tempus_ , twirling and jabbing a finger to set a wake-up gong. “Twenty minutes sound good?”

“Umm hmm,” Harry replies before sighing in obvious content.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, Ron, me too.”

“Yeah,” Ron says, closing his eyes. They fly wide a second later. “Did you ward the door or simply throw the latch?”

“Um,” Harry says.

Just then, the latch clicks and flips up. With a _creak_ , the door opens wide.

“Hullo, it's me and I've brought up beer and some snacks.” Molly's voice precedes her entry into the room by nanoseconds.

“Bloody hell,” Ron says, not even bothering to conjure a sheet or underwear.

“Ooops,” Harry comments, turning his head to look toward the door.

Molly, laden with a small tray for the beer and gnoshables, takes two steps into the room and stops, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

“And here I was thinking that the Chudley match had simply gone over and that you'd probably be parched and peckish up here.” She summons the stool from Ron's desk and sets the tray down on it. “I swear, there must be something in the air today. I just now had to shoo Charlie and Nigel out of the scullery!”

“Hey, Mum,” Harry says, giving her a little wave.

“Sorry, Mum,” Ron adds, making to slide out from under Harry.

Molly raises a hand. “Don't put yourself out on my account. Merlin knows if I'd have allowed myself to be bothered by naked bums, I'd have _never_ managed to maintain my sanity whilst raising six sons, two of which decided they had an aversion to clothing until they were five!”

“The Twins?” Harry asks.

“Who else?” Ron replies.

“Although I must admit there wasn't nearly so much... hair involved back then.” She dabs at her forehead with her handkerchief. “Have you popped up to see your ghoul? He's definitely not himself these days.”

“Mum—” Ron begins.

“Oh, pish!” Molly quips, taking in the room as if it's the first time she's seen it. “Just take a minute for the poor thing, yeah?” She points a finger at Ron, then the ceiling. 

The ghoul moans contentedly.

“Now I don't want you two lounging about up here too long,” Molly continues, “as it's not often the family's together like this. So I'll see you downstairs in what, twenty minutes?” She stares at Ron pointedly, returning the hanky to the lacy bodice of her sun dress.

“Sure, Mum.”

“Right, then.” Molly swishes to the door, pausing a moment to look over her shoulder. “Oh, and for future reference, a simple Imperturbable charm easily prevents unwanted intrusions, yeah?” She winks and closes the door behind her.

“How does she always _know_ , I wonder?” Harry asks.

“A bizarre form of Legilimency?” Ron suggests. 

“I like your mum,” Harry says, closing his eyes again. “Although I couldn't help but feel that she was, well—”

“Perving?”

“Maybe. Just a little.”

“Can you blame her? She's bonded, not dead. Besides, you've a very sweet arse, you know. And I got my good taste in men from somewhere.”

Harry sniggers, nuzzling into Ron. “So twenty minutes, then?”

“More like fifteen, now.”

“Ron?”

“Yeah, Harry. Me too.”

**_~~~~~ * fin * ~~~~~_ **

 

 


End file.
